Stockholm Syndrome Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

If you hold this heart emblazoned
Past the veiled sonatas you call a home
Then I would much incarcerate every zone
With a fire that emulates from a Stockholm syndrome.

If you buoy your arms over a maladroit chagrin,
Then I would starve oblivion from flesh to its bone,
Because your mascara holds a pertinacious grin
I and I with the gods that coalesce with Stockholm syndrome.

If paperplanes burn and parachutes churn
Over the spaces of these once oscillating skies
Then the mountains will sink in a cataclysm so taciturn
That this Stockholm syndrome be dragged down the sty.

A hurricane of flagrant disregard, I am unshaken
As I listen to the barrages of a mordacious thunder
Underneath the bleak horizon of conspiring elements,
I am left to bow down in front of the captors and burn with the embers.

These eyes are unblinkered, the moon’s jeer harangues,
The Sun is asleep behind the ashen folds of the lucid veranda
I hang each dream upon a riotous clatter of fangs
That usher from the northern mouth askew of each boorish cicada.

The nights, the stars, the eclipse and the sleeping effigies of furlough
Are dragged to the icy pits of a perfidious road in a tangle of lips and cajoles
And all the mad bellows scourge my body in front of uncouth fellows
That even the most malleable of breaths from the clouds would pave holes.

I am dragged behind a sepulchral chariot, manned by a jousting shadow.
A distortion of an ersatz sky, a scent of a mildew that died in misdemeanor
Cloy the entirety of this whole puddle of hellfire that I relish and hallow
For even in the Stockholm syndrome, I find that there are a variety of open doors.